Hostage

by Kristina Ohlsson

  This time they refused to accept her insistence that she was going nowhere.

  ‘I want to see Zakaria,’ she said.

  ‘That’s out of the question,’ Dennis said in a tone of voice that brooked no disagreement. ‘On your feet. Come with me.’

  And she did.

  Dennis took them to one of the smaller interview rooms. It had no windows, and smelled musty.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Dennis said, sitting down next to Alex.

  Maria sat opposite them.

  Dennis wasted no time on unnecessary chat.

  ‘At nine thirty yesterday, someone drove Zakaria’s car out of the city, heading towards Arlanda. Was that you?’

  Alex could see that the girl was genuinely surprised.

  ‘No.’

  He believed her.

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Everything happened so fast that Alex didn’t have time to react. Dennis leapt out of his chair and leaned across the table. With his face just inches from hers, he roared at the top of his voice:

  ‘Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke? Four hundred people could die because you’re sitting here thinking that your miserable concerns are more important than everybody else’s.’

  He sat down again.

  His outburst bore fruit just seconds later.

  ‘The hijacking is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘We know that,’ Dennis said. ‘However, you are guilty of protecting a criminal, which is a crime in itself.’

  Alex searched for something to say, but decided it was best to allow Dennis to steer the conversation in the right direction.

  Maria folded her arms; it was a pathetic gesture. She was on the verge of tears, but Alex couldn’t have cared less. This was serious, more serious than it had ever been. Dennis was right. Her personal concerns were a drop in the ocean compared with what was about to happen to the passengers on Flight 573.

  ‘Someone came round yesterday morning and asked to borrow the car. And I can promise you that the person in question had nothing to do with the hijacking.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that’s not enough for us; we have to eliminate that possibility for ourselves,’ Dennis said.

  ‘Yes, you seem to be good at that.’

  Alex thought Dennis was about to erupt again, but it didn’t happen.

  ‘Start talking,’ he said instead.

  ‘It was only hours before you picked up Zakaria. The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it. And . . . she was standing there. She asked if she could borrow the car until Thursday. There’s nothing odd about that – we’ve lent her the car several times in the past.’

  ‘Who, Maria? Who was it who wanted to borrow the car?’ Dennis couldn’t hide his impatience.

  ‘She’s got nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  This was something Alex had never understood, throughout the whole of his career. People who kept quiet even though everything was already lost. Why didn’t they simply put their cards on the table, take responsibility for their actions? How could they justify such a course of action to themselves? How could they decide to be the difference between right and wrong, between life and death?

  In the end, she gave up, after one last shot.

  ‘I want to see Zakaria.’

  She was crying, which wasn’t good. Not now they were so close.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Dennis said. ‘But I promise we won’t keep him away from you for one second longer than necessary.’

  It was true, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t lie about something like that. Maria could see it too. She wiped away a solitary tear as it trickled down her cheek.

  ‘It was Zakaria’s sister, Sofi.’

  62

  23:00

  His hair was short and unevenly cut, his face emaciated, exhausted. Eden Lundell was sitting at her computer looking at the picture of Adam Mortaji that the CIA had sent over.

  So this was what he looked like. The man who had almost cost Zakaria his entire future, and who was evidently so important that he was worth risking his life for. Or perhaps he was important to Sofi, and therefore to Zakaria?

  Or was Zakaria lying to protect himself, regardless of who the phone had belonged to in the past?

  How was she going to find out?

  Someone had clearly thought that Adam Mortaji was privy to vital information, and had taken him to a remote part of the world where he had probably been subjected to torture in order to make him talk.

  God knows what he had said.

  Personally, Eden would have started talking right away if anyone had tortured her. Particularly if they did something to her teeth. She would confess to anything, anything at all if they did that.

  The murder of Olof Palme.

  Lockerbie.

  Anything, just as long as they stopped.

  Eden printed off a copy of the picture and went to see Dennis.

  ‘May I introduce Adam Mortaji, the guy who used to own Zakaria’s phone.’

  Dennis took the picture.

  ‘Nice one – where did you get hold of this?’

  Eden perched on the edge of Dennis’s desk.

  ‘From our American friends. And he’s not only the guy who used to own Zakaria’s phone. He’s also the link between Zakaria and Tennyson Cottage.’

  She relayed what the Americans had told her to Dennis, who was briefly lost for words. Then he exploded.

  ‘They knew right from the fucking start that there was a guy in Sweden who’d been in Tennyson Cottage, and they didn’t tell us?’

  ‘I don’t think they were lying. I think they believed he lived in Germany, and didn’t have any connections with Sweden.’

  ‘But surely the Germans must have known who he was?’

  ‘I’m sure they did. But that doesn’t mean they followed his every move. It’s not exactly difficult to travel from Germany to Sweden without any of the authorities taking any notice. And if I’m reading the call lists correctly, he’s spent a lot of time in Sweden, both before and after his internment.’

  Dennis pulled up the lists on his computer.

  He looked at Eden with admiration.

  ‘A lot of things seem to be falling into place,’ he said.

  ‘There’s also a great deal that worries me,’ Eden said. ‘We know that Sofi has been in contact with Adam Mortaji, and I think that could partly explain why Zakaria wasn’t prepared to give us his name. But it concerns me that Sofi has kept such a low profile throughout Zakaria’s trial, and that she has never, ever come forward. I think she must have her own reasons for behaving in that way.’

  Dennis ran a finger over the picture of Adam Mortaji. God knows what he had endured during his time at Tennyson Cottage.

  ‘Is Zakaria’s sister the brains behind everything that’s happened?’

  ‘It’s possible, don’t you think?’ Eden said.

  ‘And I’m sure Adam Mortaji has been a great help to her.’

  Eden bit her lower lip.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ she said. ‘Mortaji died in June.’

  Dennis was clearly shocked.

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘He killed himself. The Americans didn’t say why, but I’m guessing it had something to do with his imprisonment.’

  ‘Which could explain the demand that Tennyson Cottage specifically should be shut down.’

  Eden nodded.

  ‘What I still don’t understand is how Karim Sassi fits into all this.’

  Eden knew that her tone was a little too matter-of-fact, but she had neither the time nor the energy to become personally involved in the tragic stories that were unfolding. There was a limit to how much misery a person could absorb in one day.

  Dennis shook his head slowly.

  ‘Me neither,’ he said.

  He looked at the sheet of paper in Eden’s hand.

  ‘More surprises?’

  Eden looked at the
printout. It was the article about Adam Mortaji that she had found on the Internet after a thorough search. She passed it to Dennis.

  ‘Mortaji isn’t mentioned by name,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘No. His father was afraid for both himself and his son, and chose to remain anonymous. But of course the Americans realised who he was.’

  ‘And you said he died in June?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently, Mortaji left Europe in May, and returned to Morocco. He died soon afterwards. His father was terribly upset that his son’s girlfriend didn’t get there in time.’

  ‘In time for what?’

  ‘You can read it for yourself,’ she said. ‘But if I remember rightly, the girlfriend was on her way to Mortaji’s parents to be reunited with her lover, but for some reason she was delayed, and didn’t arrive until the day after he died.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘It’s a very sad story, but right now we need to get this picture out as quickly as possible. Send it to the Germans, and distribute it to our own staff. I want to know everything there is to know about Adam Mortaji.’

  She swallowed hard. Wanting to know everything was something they often wished for but rarely achieved.

  The nasal voice of her British boss echoed in the back of her mind: Go, Eden, for God’s sake, just go.

  Memories from a time gone by, a time she didn’t want to think about.

  ‘I’ll give the picture to one of our operatives,’ she said, reaching out to take it from Dennis.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, looking more closely at the image.

  He pointed to Mortaji’s chest, which was partly visible because he was wearing a vest.

  ‘He’s got a tattoo there,’ he said.

  Eden looked. Dennis was right; she hadn’t noticed it.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I’ve no idea; something in Arabic, I think.’

  ‘I’ll ask Sebastian,’ Eden said.

  She found the head of analysis at his desk.

  ‘Can you get this translated?’ she said, showing him the tattoo.

  Sebastian opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass. Eden burst out laughing.

  ‘Bloody hell, Sebastian – you keep a magnifying glass in your drawer? Does that improve your analytical skills?’

  Sebastian gave her a wry smile.

  ‘Watch it, Eden.’

  She remembered the discussion when she had referred to his colleagues as so-called Arabists, and tried to assume a serious expression. It didn’t last long; she was soon laughing again. The magnifying glass was covered in greasy fingerprints, and looked like something that had been stolen from a museum.

  ‘Come with me,’ Sebastian said.

  With the picture in one hand and the magnifying glass in the other, and Eden following on behind, he went over to one of his colleagues.

  ‘Can you read this?’ he said, handing her the picture.

  The girl screwed up her eyes and peered at it.

  ‘It’s a bit small.’

  Sebastian gave her the magnifying glass, and she smiled.

  Eden coughed into the crook of her arm to suppress another giggle. Who would have thought a laugh could be so liberating.

  ‘It doesn’t say anything in particular,’ the analyst said, and Eden’s high spirits turned to disappointment.

  Of course it didn’t; why had she thought otherwise?

  ‘But surely it must say something?’ Sebastian said.

  ‘It’s just a name. It could be his girlfriend or his sister. Hard to tell – there’s only a forename.’

  Sebastian was equally disappointed.

  ‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ he said. ‘So what’s the name of this girlfriend or sister?’

  ‘Sofi.’

  63

  FLIGHT 573

  She was woken by an excruciating pain. At first, she couldn’t remember where she was, or what had happened. She cautiously moved her arms and legs, but stopped immediately. The source of the agony was in her head. The smallest movement made her want to scream. The pain came in waves; the only way to keep it under control was to lie absolutely still.

  Fatima blinked. Once, twice.

  The floor was hard against her cheek. Hard and cold. And there was a constant banging sound all around her. She closed her eyes. She had to think, try to remember.

  Slowly, the memories began to surface.

  She was still on board the plane. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, but she realised they were still in the air.

  More memories.

  Erik Recht had got up and left the cockpit. She recalled Erik’s face and the message in his eyes before he walked out:

  ‘Make sure you stay here until I come back.’

  The next recollection was from the toilet, where she and Erik had locked themselves in so that they wouldn’t be disturbed. Erik had been agitated, talking loudly about Karim’s odd behaviour. She had stuck up for Karim, hadn’t wanted to hear such nonsense – how could Karim possibly be involved in the hijacking?

  And now she was lying on the floor of the cockpit, knocked down by the same man she had defended just hours earlier.

  The realisation of the dilemma in which she found herself almost took her breath away. She was terrified. She was still in the cockpit, which must mean that Karim was there too.

  Please, God, don’t let him notice that I’ve come round.

  When had he hit her? The details were unclear, but she thought her problems had begun when Erik rang the bell, wanting to be let back in.

  ‘Leave him out there,’ Karim had said.

  And then, when he saw first surprise and then resistance in her face, when he saw her reach for the button that would open the door, he had leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of her.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t you understand what I’m saying? I don’t want him in here – if you let him in, we’re all going to die.’

  Fatima remembered what she had seen when she looked Karim in the eye, trembling with shock:

  Despair.

  Unmistakable despair in those beautiful dark eyes.

  ‘But what’s happened?’ she had said, wanting to try to understand what lay behind his irrational determination to keep Erik locked out of the cockpit.

  He hadn’t replied. At the same time, Erik started hammering on the door, and she knew he must have realised what was going on.

  Karim had no intention of letting him back in.

  She didn’t know how long Karim had held onto her. It had felt like an eternity, and suddenly Erik had stopped banging on the door. For a brief moment, she had thought the danger was over, that Karim was going to let her go.

  Not that she knew where she would have gone.

  And he had in fact let go of her, told her to sit down on the floor. She had done as he said, because by now she understood that something had gone terribly wrong.

  Karim had moved towards the door and, at first, she had believed he was going to open it. When he turned around, he was clutching the fire extinguisher. She heard him say something she couldn’t remember, then he lifted the extinguisher and . . .

  It was as if her head had suddenly been reminded that it was hurt, and she forced herself to squeeze her eyes tight shut to stop the hot tears spilling over and giving her away.

  Shit, there was no way she could fix this on her own.

  The tears were caused by the pain, which felt like needles piercing her eyeballs. She didn’t have time to cry. She didn’t want to cry.

  But what was that noise, drowning out all the normal racket of an aircraft?

  The door. Erik was out there again. Or had he been there all the time?

  Fatima gave a start as Karim yelled:

  ‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake, just stop it! You’re not coming back in, you hear me?’

  There it was again, the echo of despair. It was unmistakable; she was absolutely certain she was right. Something was terribly wrong. Something more than the fact that the plane
had been hijacked.

  Karim, what have you done?

  Eventually, she had to open her eyes a fraction in order to work out where she was in relation to Karim. The light was blinding, and she instinctively closed them again.

  Fatima tried again, and this time it was easier.

  She was lying behind the seats, not far from the door. Karim was sitting with his back to her, his shirt sticking to his skin with perspiration. He was sweating as if he had just completed a ten-mile run. He was raking his hands through his hair, repeating over and over again:

  ‘I can’t cope with this, for fuck’s sake. Stop banging on the fucking door. Please, please let this be over soon.’

  She tried raising her head. It went better than she had expected. The fire extinguisher was next to Karim. She couldn’t think of any other weapon within reach.

  She would have just one chance, she knew that. If she reached for the extinguisher, she had to be certain that she could get to her feet in the next movement and bring it down on Karim’s head. If he had time to react, she was screwed. He was far stronger than her in purely physical terms. One chance. That was all she would get. And it would be over in seconds.

  Fatima waited a little while longer. Erik carried on hammering on the door. Surely it had to give way soon? Should she wait?

  No. It was a security door, designed for exactly this kind of situation. It was built to withstand extreme pressure from the outside, in order to protect the crew, and thus the passengers. Which meant there was a problem if the threat was on the wrong side of the door.

  She sensed that Karim was about to do something really stupid, something that wasn’t part of the plan. The noise from the door was obviously distracting him, which was good. She had to try to gather her strength.

  Then an alternative course of action occurred to her.

  The button that would unlock the door – could she reach that instead? Erik would be inside in no time.

  By now, Karim had his hands over his ears, and his head was drooping.

  It was now or never.

  The button or the fire extinguisher.

  She counted silently to herself.

  One, two, three.

  Then she saw it. Just inches away.

  A fork.

  Not a plastic fork like the ones they handed out to the passengers in economy, but a real fork made of stainless steel. The kind you got if you were travelling first class. Or if you were a member of the crew.